31 Days of Sherlock (Jan2013)
by TheBrightestNight
Summary: A story, a drabble, a thought, an idea, a snippet, a one-shot everyday for every day in the month of January.
1. Breathe

**I'm starting a series of fanfictions where I post drabbles of blossoming ideas from various fandoms each month, a "chapter" for that fandom a day. This month is Sherlock because I've got Sherlock on the brain. Next months is up in the air but I do plan to alternate between fandoms each months. Which fandoms is for me to know and you to find out.**

**I'll attempt to post every day and if I don't you'll get the number of chapters for the number of days I'm absent. Suggestions or ideas for this particular fandom are welcome (because writer's block will probably be the reason for my absence) in reviews or PMs.**

**I'm a day late on this one, so you'll have two "chapters" to read.**

**January: 31 drabbles that have anything and everything to do with anything and everything Sherlock. I'll leave you to your own deductions (or rather imaginations) afterward.**

**They can be AU, OOC (but I don't particularly like OOC, so you won't see it often or at all), BBC canon, ACD canon ****(possibly, but not likely)**, etc., etc., can feature any of the characters at any one time, may vary in length from a sentence to a paragraph to a page to pages. Themes may range from sweet to fairly dark and everywhere in between.

**Hope you enjoy!**

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#01 | Breathe

John grabbed the detective's forearm, stopping him in his tracks and spinning him around sharply, those sometimes pale-blue, sometimes pale-green, sometimes grey eyes piercing his own brown ones.

"You don't have to do this alone, Sherlock."

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**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	2. Love

#02 | Love

It was then, in that moment as Sherlock gazed down at his blogger, and his blogger, John, gazed back up at him, eyes locking—Sherlock so high up, on top of St. Bart's; John with his feet planted firmly on the ground, in the middle of the street—did Sherlock realize that this concept of _love_ (of _sentiment_) wasn't always and/or didn't always have to be romantic.

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**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	3. Moment

#03 | Moment

I paid the fare and stepped out of the taxi, struggling a bit with the large bags of gifts in my hands. Heart pounding in my chest, because of nerves of seeing... _him_ tonight, especially dressed in something I hoped looked as nice as I saw it. Secretly hoping in the back of my mind that maybe Sherlock would notice, maybe he'd at least comment.

I quickly walked up to the door labeled 221B, eager to get out of the cold night air, and noticed the small note on the door that said to just go up. Switching one of the bags to my right hands I opened up the door and headed upstairs, the door to John's and Sherlock's flat already open and welcoming. There was a fire in the fireplace and it looked like the whole group was there.

"Hello everyone." I greeted stepping in. John immediately came over to greet me as well, while everyone else said hello too. "Sorry, hello. Uh, it said on the door just to come up." I felt the need to explain myself as I set the bags down on a small table next to me and, automatically glancing up at Sherlock, started taking off my coat.

"Let me, er—Holy Mary!" John exclaimed as I handed him my coat, smiling shyly down at ground, now again again stealing glances in Sherlock's direction. He was indifferent to my appearance, as usual. I really shouldn't have gotten my hopes up like that anyway. I don't know what I'd been thinking. Just letting a fantasy get the best of me, I supposed.

"So we're having a Christmas drinkies, then?" I asked, straitening the bracelets on my wrist anxiously.

"No stopping them, apparently." Sherlock answered in a monotone, sitting down in front of a laptop, not even glancing my way.

"It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it." Mrs. Hudson told me with a smile.

Sherlock suddenly made a comment about John's blog and John went over just as Lestrade asked me if I wanted a drink. I told him yes and thanked him before turning back to Mrs. Hudson, trying to make conversation, ease my nerves.

"How's the hip?" I asked.

"Oh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking." Mrs. Hudson answered.

"I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems." There was a small pause before I realized what I'd said. "Oh, God, sorry—" I started but Sherlock's baritone voice interrupted me.

"Don't make jokes, Molly." he said, glancing over at me for a moment.

I gave my own fleeting glance. "No, sorry." My voice coming out in a whisper. Thankfully Lestrade came over then with my glass of wine. "Thank you." I said. "I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were going to be in Dorset for Christmas?" Maybe this attempt at small talk would end a little better.

"That's first thing in the morning, me and the wife. We're back together, it's all sorted." He smiled.

"No, she's sleeping with the PE teacher." Sherlock's voice came from behind me.

I tried to ignore him and turned to John, who'd gone back to sit next to his girlfriend.

"And John, I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right?" I asked him. Third time had to be the charm, right?

"Yeah." John comfirmed.

"Sherlock was complaining—saying." Again the words came out of my mouth before I could really think about what I was saying, my eyes inadvertently going to look over at Sherlock for a moment at my comment, see if he'd react in any way. He didn't.

"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze." John continued ignoring my comment for my sake, I hoped.

"Nope." Sherlock said.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John snapped.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him." Suddenly Sherlock's attention turned to me and I froze, grasping the neck of the wine glass in my hands to keep them from shaking. My heartbeat quickened.

"What? Sorry, what?" I asked almost breathless.

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift." The tone of his voice wasn't exactly friendly and I knew what he was about to do, but I just couldn't work up the courage to say something to him.

"Take a day off." John said exasperated, speaking what I was feeling under all my anxiety at what was about to come.

Even Lestrade went up to him, setting a drink down in front of him on the table saying, "Shut up and have a drink."

They all knew Sherlock well enough to notice the signs, the signs of when he was going to start one of his deductions. Fantastic, but if they were directed at you weren't all that fun, especially if it was personal. He had no personal boundaries and no filter. He didn't understand social niceties and it drove me over the edge sometimes.

And yet, I continued to torture myself, letting my heart rule my head. I was still helplessly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock being Sherlock ignored John and Lestrade. I still couldn't get my mouth to move, let alone form coherent words. Not that that would prevent Sherlock's deduction. John and Lestrade had already tried and failed. So, I didn't think that I'd be able to do anything at the present moment.

"Oh, come on, surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag." He stood and my heart jumped at the mention of the one at the top. I knew exactly which one he was talking about. The one for him. Oh, God. He was deducing my gift to him. And _still_ I couldn't get myself to speak. I couldn't get myself to interrupt him. "Perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash, at best." He started approaching me then and everything around me seemed to slow. It sounds very cliché and all, I know, but I could hear my heart beat in my chest slowly and the party guests fell silent and stopped moving, nearly. Almost like me: It was hard to interrupt Sherlock Holmes when he went off. "It's for someone special, then." he continued, reaching for the gift I'd suspected, speaking as quickly as ever. "Shade of red echoes her lipstick, either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hopper has _love_ on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all. That always suggests long-term hopes, however forlorn, and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts..." He trailed off reading the small note attached to the present. The one I'd written as nicely as I could just for him: _Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly xxx_.

Silence followed his speech, no one spoke and I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes but I _refused_ to cry in front of Sherlock. I thought about maybe slapping him or throwing my drink in his face but I was much too shy to do that. Especially to the man that I, unfortunately and regrettably, loved. They were just part of my imagination, like me and Sherlock becoming and thing. Always just my imagination.

Words did manage to flow from my mouth though after I had enough of the deafening silence.

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always." My voice lowered as I got to the end of my sentence as I tried to hold back the tears and gripped my glass of wine. Things still seemed to have frozen or slowed tremendously down around me. I couldn't meet his gaze. It was humiliating, what he'd said. I really shouldn't have suspected anything else, though.

It still hurt.

There were more moments of silence as Sherlock digested my words. He shifted a bit and if I wasn't mistake looked... embarrassed, maybe ashamed himself, but it could've been my delusional mind. For a moment he took a step as if to leave the room but he stepped back and looking down at the present said something I don't think I'd ever heard him say to anyone before.

"I am sorry. Forgive me." And before I could even be done being shocked about this apology Sherlock took a step toward me, leaning in close and murmuring, "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." before kissing me on the cheek.

The separation from my world to the world around me shattered then and, just like that, the moment ended.

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**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	4. Alone

**Also, on a side-note, completely unrelated to this chapter, there might be the occasional OC here and there.**

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#04 | Alone

John's phone rang, echoing throughout the large, quiet laboratory. He picked it up, taking his time, just waking up from having fallen asleep a while ago, and there was another short moment of silence as he listened to the caller.

"Yeah, speaking. What? What happened? Is she okay?" he stood, then. "Oh, my God! Right—Yes, I'm coming." John responded his tone of voice anxious and worried.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked in his same monotoned, detached voice because he knew. He knew what was happening here. He'd figured it out long before John's phone had rung. He'd been expecting it since he'd sent Moriarty that text, inviting him to the hospital's rooftop.

"Paramedics. Mrs. Hudson. She's been shot." John explained wanting to just bolt out the door to make sure that she was going to be okay. To be there for her.

"What? How?" Sherlock asked inclining his head slightly to look at John, but his voice still stayed mildly detached. Something John missed because his mind was focused on Mrs. Hudson.

"Probably one of the killers you managed to attract—Jesus! Jesus. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go." John started to head to the door but stopped and turned to face Sherlock incredulously as his next words:

"You go, I'm busy."

John almost couldn't form the next word he was too bewildered at Sherlock's statement. "Busy?"

"Thinking. I need to _think_." Sherlock replied.

"You need to—" John started but broke off and instead asked, "Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

"She's my landlady." the detective said indifferently.

"She's _dying_ you _machine—_" John struggled to contain his fury, knowing that he was wasting his time, when Mrs. Hudson could be using a friend right now. "Sod this. Sod this. You stay here, on your own." John started toward the door then, quickly and swiftly.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." Sherlock said, looking straight ahead, not meeting John's eyes.

"No," John started, jerking the door open, turning back to look at Sherlock. "Friends protect people."

_If only you knew, John,_ Sherlock thought briefly. _If only you knew._

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**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	5. Spin

#05 | Spin

He sits in the middle of his web.

Sitting.

Staring in darkness.

Watching. Waiting.

Waiting for the prey to come to him. Fly right into his trap.

Once there he could use them to his advantage. Ordinary people were _absolutely_ adorable. Their minds worked the same. It was all too easy to manipulate and control them.

Watch them dance.

And then there was Sherlock. The world's only Consulting Detective. With a mind, seemingly, so clever. Oh, but he was on the side of the angels. Helping the police solve all their cases.

It was about time someone play the game with him. Someone clever enough. Ordinary people were too easy to beat. They struggled in his web, but they were only a mere nuisance, shaking it and disrupting the balance, until he disposed of them.

Sherlock was different. He wasn't caught in the web. Not yet.

It was time to see just how clever Sherlock was.

Time to see what the angel's had.

Time to lure Sherlock into his web.

Because, you see, James Moriarty is not a man.

He's a spider.

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**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	6. Apologies

#06 | Apologies

"_Don't—!_" John snapped, spinning around to face Mycroft, only breaking off because he was too angry to continue but quickly swallowed that emotion and started again, still just as furious, however, more contained: "_Don't_ apologize if you don't _sincerely_ mean it." He spoke slowly and precisely. "If you're so sorry why don't you go and tell him _yourself_."

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**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	7. Suicide

#07 | Suicide

John took out his mobile and started idly scanning through his contacts—just for something to do, he supposed—staring at the screen blankly until he got to the name labeled SHERLOCK HOLMES.

He stopped scrolling, unable to move on.

Just seeing his name made pain shoot through John. His breath started to elevate and his hands started to shake.

John looked away from the phone, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, letting the hand that was holding his phone fall into his lap. His therapist's suggestion echoed through his head. She thought it would be a good idea to, if he ever came up with things he wanted to say that he never got to say or didn't think of at the time, go to Sherlock's grave and tell him.

The idea was absurd in John's mind. It was all too painful. Just the mention of him, not even his name, sent shock-waves of pain radiating through his body, most nearly paralyzing him.

John opened his eyes again with a sharp, loud sigh and gazed down at his phone. Then again... maybe she was right. There had been a feeling of release—release from the pain, from the eternal ache in his chest, from the paralysis—when John had gone to Sherlock's grave after the funeral and told him what he truly thought of his best friend. Begged him to not be dead...

Not be dead.

For him.

Hesitantly, and with a trembling hand, he clicked Sherlock's name and flipped his phone open, staring at the blank screen for a moment before he started typing:

_If you're really dead, I'll never forgive myself._

SENDING...

SENT

_But I swear to God, Sherlock, I swear to God, if you're really alive... I'll never forgive you._

SENDING...

SENT

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**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	8. Lie

**{Paired with #09.}**

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#08 | Lie

Sherlock and John arrived at New Scotland Yard and Sherlock swiftly exited the cab, leaving John to pay the fare and jog to catch up with him. Lestrade met them as they entered.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked before Lestrade could say anything.

"Down that hall, there." Lestrade directed but kept speaking before Sherlock could dash off. "But Donovan is conducting an interrogation, right now—"

"May I?" Sherlock interrupted edging past Lestrade and toward the hall he'd gestured to not a moment ago.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him. The detective ignored him and continued swiftly down the hall, glancing through the windows looking for that utterly recognizable curly, brown hair.

As soon as he spotted her he opened the door to the room interrupting the questioning.

"—after everything this year." The woman, Charlotte Blackwell, was just finishing up upon Sherlock's arrival.

They both looked up. Donovan stood and walked up to him.

"What do you want?" she asked defensively, crossing her arms, and in her usual bitter tone whenever she spoke to Sherlock. The only reason she didn't call him Freak at this moment was because Charlotte was sitting right there and she was already excited enough. They'd barely been able to get her here with her husband in custody already. She wasn't particularly angry, she was more saddened or melancholy because of this fact.

"To talk to Mrs. Blackwell." Sherlock answered in that same, indifferent tone.

"Well, this isn't amateur hour." Donovan retorted before reaching for the door, planning to push him out and close it. "Now if you'll excuse me—"

"Oh, come on, I can't merely observe while you finish up?" Sherlock asked in a mocking tone not moving an inch from where he was currently standing.

Donovan's eyes narrowed but before she could say anything else, Lestrade and John came up behind Sherlock.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's not do this now. Just wait your turn." John said as soon as they'd come up.

Sherlock turned his torso to face John and said, "I'll just be a moment." And with that, in the middle of Lestrade and John's objections, he stepped inside and closed the door. "Continue." He told Donovan, sticking his hands in his Belstaff's pockets.

"I could have you arrested for obstruction of justice." Donovan almost yelled remembering just in time Charlotte was still in the room.

Sherlock gave her a small sardonic smile. "I'd like to see you try."

Donovan opened her mouth, nostrils flaring in anger, hands balled into fists, about to yell something obscene but Charlotte stood then.

"Maybe I should just go now..." She trailed off, hesitantly making her way around the table.

"No, no," Donovan quickly composed herself and turned to face Charlotte. "I'm terribly sorry. Please," She gestured toward the chair just deciding that as long as Sherlock stayed silent she could attempt to ignore his presence in the room until the questioning was over.

After a moment of contemplating, Charlotte went to sit back down. Donovan also sat down, more robotically, though and Sherlock stood behind her and off to her right.

"So, then you and you're husband have been through a lot?" Donovan asked picking up where they'd last off.

"What? No! No. I just meant that a nice-paying job is getting harder to find." Charlotte answered in a hard voice.

"Maybe he's completely mental." Sherlock interjected. Donovan turned to glare up at him but he was completely focused on Charlotte who's expression was bewildered.

"Sorry?" she asked in an offended tone.

"You're husband. Maybe he's off his rocker." he responded.

"I'm _going_ to have you arrested if you don't shut up!" Donovan threatened, standing as Charlotte asked,"What—? What are you talk—"

"Well, he was arguing with his current employers. Constantly getting into fights. Let me guess, his boss was probably threatening to fire him, correct? What Sergent Donovan is dancing around here is that we—"

Donovan crossed her arms, shaking her head in disbelief. "_We_?" she repeated.

Sherlock ignored her and continued on. "—think your husband just lost it and, in a fit a rage, decided to burn down your flat and his boss's as well."

"Nicholas would _never_ do something like that!" Tears started welling up in Charlotte's eyes, thinking about what was happening to her. First her husband is put in jail and now this!

"Get out!" Donovan pointed angrily to the door. "Get out, right now, Freak!"

"She's not the one you should be questioning, Sergent Donovan. You're wasting your time." Sherlock shot back, but still in the same monotone he usually had despite being around two emotionally disturbed women.

Donovan turned to Charlotte suddenly. "I'm am so sorry." she apologized.

"Don't coddle her!" The consulting detective's voice almost sounded disgusted here. "It will do nothing to help."

"You're derailing this investigation! She won't want to answer our questions if we insult her!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong—which I know I'm not—but I don't think I'm the one who arrested her husband."

That was the last straw for Donovan whose hand came up and slapped the detective clear across the cheek.

Charlotte's mouth dropped and her eyebrows knitted together.

"Who the hell are you people?" she asked. "Stay away from me! This 'interrogation' is over!" With that she stormed out, pushing roughly past John and Lestrade who were waiting outside.

"What'd you do this time?" Lestrade asked looking at Sherlock who stepped out of the room and started down the hall.

"Nicholas didn't do it." he told Lestrade as he walked.

"I'm sorry?" the Detective Inspector asked, jogging to keep up with Sherlock but almost crashing into him when he stopped and spun around.

"Nicholas didn't burn down his flat. Or the others for that matter. Charlotte Blackwell's face was disgusted when Donovan slapped me. But she wasn't afraid. And she showed no heightened sensitivity to violence between a man and woman. Which means she wasn't abused. Which means that Nicholas isn't the type of person to lose control and burn down a building." Sherlock explained. "You've got the wrong man." He spun on his heel then and swiftly exited the building with John following behind him looking confused.

Lestrade let him go, too confused himself to follow, and was still staring at the two retreating figures when Donovan came up next to him.

"You slapped him?" Lestrade finally asked looking at Donovan in astonishment.

Donovan shrugged but had a giant grin on her face. "He asked for it."

Lestrade crossed his arms. "Now, Donovan—"

"No," She chuckled reaching into her pocket for her phone. "He _asked_ for it." She tapped the keys a couple of times before displaying the screen for Lestrade to see:

_Can you do something for me?_

_ SH_

"He asked you to do something for him?" Lestrade queried, clearly not believing this.

"Ask him yourself!"

"You hate him."

"Yes, but it isn't everyday you get the chance to slap him. Let alone have him _ask you_ to slap him." Donovan pointed out, putting her mobile away.

"I see your point." Lestrade said looking at the doors that Sherlock and John had exited even though they were long gone. "Though I'm more of a punching type of guy." He muttered turning around and heading back down the hall. "Come on Donovan," he called over his shoulder, "we need to release Nicholas Blackwell from custody."

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**I can sense the OOC-ness of it but I can see Sherlock doing something like that to get information. I mean, he cried in The Great Game about a man he didn't even know, so I can kind of see him getting slapped to find a serial arsonist.**

**Another quick note: I apologize if my terms are wrong. I am from America, so I don't know British terms, only the ones I pick up from watching Doctor Who and Sherlock.**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	9. Truth

**{Paired with #08.}**

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#09 | Truth

The beginning of the cab ride was utterly silent, but that was only because John couldn't think of a tactful way of bringing up the topic. He must've been think too loud about all the different scenarios, though, because Sherlock was the one who broke the silence.

"Just ask your question, John." he said.

"What exactly happened back there? Did-did Donovan really slap you?" John looked over at his flatmate, but he was looking out of the window.

"Yes." he answered curtly.

"You didn't answer my first question." John pointed out helpfully.

Sherlock glanced at his sometimes exceedingly annoying blogger for a moment before staring back out his window.

"I texted Sergeant Donovan about an hour ago. Planned the whole thing to see if Nicholas Blackwell really did burn down those flats. He didn't."

"You went to Donovan, of all people? You know she probably enjoyed that... far too much." He wanted to be shocked but the situation, John was finding, was actually quite comical.

Sherlock turned to look at John noting the amusement in his voice.

"Yes. So?" he asked looking right at John with those piercing grey eyes. He couldn't find anything about what happened _amusing_.

John snickered a full blown smile stretching across his face. "Nothing, nothing." He shook his head, giggling now, and turned to look out his own window, still smiling (and trying to stifle his giggles in coughs) but not wanting Sherlock to see.

John heard the detective let out a small sigh and looked over to see him sulkily staring out the window.

"Scotland Yard is going to have a laugh over this one." He couldn't help but comment seeing the look on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, an unreadable emotion in his eyes. Nonetheless, John met his eyes, keeping that amused smile on his face with no giggling or snickering this time.

After a moment of this in silence, Sherlock turned away—John glancing out his own window—muttering, "That is if Donovan hasn't already told everyone in the building."

John laughed then, looking back at Sherlock who also looked over at John at the same time, half a smile on his face.

So he _did_ find this somewhat amusing after all.

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**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	10. Dangerous

#10 | Dangerous

"What will you do with him?" he asked no worry detectable in his voice, but leaking through his eyes and his tense posture.

The man glanced out the window as the helicopter started to rise at the two silhouettes holding a third, struggling silhouette, as they wrestled him toward the stairwell entrance before turning back to look at him.

"Me? Nothing." His eyes flickered toward the three retreating figures once again before returning to meet his gaze steadily. "I'm afraid I can't say the same for George and William."

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**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	11. Idiot

**Just like to give a quick shout-out to Sherlockian Dreams for your awesome reviews!**

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#11 | Idiot

"Anderson, when you speak do you hear words, or is it just a bunch of roaring in your ears?"

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**Longer ones to come sooner... hopefully. (No promises though, I just feel a tad bit bad for posting such short ones almost all the time.)**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	12. Area

#12 | Area

"Sorry, John, but no matter how much you tell people you're not gay it just won't matter because, let's face it, you are in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes."

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**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	13. Necessity

#13 | Necessity

"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Watch it!"

There was the sound of a gun firing followed by three more quick, one-right-after-the-other gunshots; rapid fire.

"John?" Sherlock asked almost sounding breathless, as he knelt down next to his colleague, next to his only friend, setting the gun aside.

There was no need to worry about their attacker for he was lying on the ground a few feet away, dead from three fatal gunshot wounds to the chest.

Sherlock put an arm around John's shoulders and propped him up, monitoring his breathing.

"John," he asked again, looking for the wound. "John, talk to me."

John mumbled something just as Sherlock found the gunshot wound: The left side in the abdominal area. Sherlock took one of John's hands and pressed it up against the wound getting a groan in response from John. After making sure that John kept some sort of pressure against his wound he reached for his mobile.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that earlier." Sherlock said, still sounding slightly breathless, as he dialed 999.

"That didn't..." John's words slurred as he tried to speak again. The pain was overwhelming. He just wanted to sleep. To just close his eyes and sleep. "...didn't go... exactly... as-as planned." John finished his sentence dying out near the end as he swayed forward. Sherlock struggled to keep him upright without causing him pain with his one free hand, the other holding his mobile up to his ear.

"I need an ambulance, quickly," Sherlock spoke into the phone before swiftly rattling off the street and directions to the alley they were currently in, hanging up as soon as he did so, giving his full attention to John whose eyes were closed. "John," he said a little louder. "John, open your eyes for me."

"'m fine... I'm... fine." John mumbled his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to open his eyes. Sherlock looked down for a moment noticing that John's hand had slipped off his wound. The bloodstain on his shirt had grown in size.

With his now free hand Sherlock reached for his scarf.

"No..." John shook his head. "You don't... need to—"

"Shut up, you've just been shot. I need to apply pressure to the wound. You of all people should know this," Sherlock said, folding up his scarf and pressing it against the wound while looking down at John. "Doctor."

John smiled—Sherlock giving him one of his half-smiles—and gave a breathy chuckle but not a moment after did his eyelids flutter closed.

"John," the detective said his tone of voice sounding off, panicked maybe? But, no, Sherlock Holmes didn't get panicked. Never. John was just hearing things. It was the wound. It had to be the wound. He was... going into shock. He was delirious. He had just been shot after all.

"John, let me see those eyes." Sherlock shifted John a bit when he didn't respond. "Come on, John. Open your eyes."

Where the hell was the ambulance?

John let out a sigh but again struggled to open his eyes. "...fine, Sherlock." he mumbled looking up at the detective.

"Of course you'll be fine. You'll be... just... fine." Sherlock looked down toward the entrance of the alley impatiently.

Was that worry John detected in Sherlock's voice? Okay, so maybe he wasn't _completely_... fine.

He _was_ tried, though. So incredibly tired. He just wanted to sleep...

Sherlock looked back down at John whose head had fallen into his shoulder. He jostled John slightly, careful to be gentle.

"John, come on, John. Open your eyes. Let me see your eyes."

A weird emotion swept over Sherlock then. It was a very unpleasant feeling and if he didn't know any better he'd have guessed he was panicking... maybe, even possibly... on the verge of hysteria?

No.

Sherlock Holmes _didn't_ get hysterical—

"Why?" Sherlock asked suddenly, shifting John again, who blinked like he'd just been woken up from falling asleep (which was probably the case), endeavoring to keep his eyes open. "Why—why would you do that?" he continued looking down at John briefly.

"S'rry. I... must've... missed s'mething." John responded.

"Why did you do that? Why... why did you take that bullet for me?"

John shook his head, letting out a chuckle. "You... you wouldn't und'rstand." Sherlock looked at his flatmate with a sort of offended expression and opened his mouth to respond to that but John cut him off by adding, "Sentiment."

Sherlock's mouth closed and he looked back up toward the alley's entrance.

"Help me understand, then. This... _sentiment_." He kept talking to keep John to keep talking until that bloody ambulance got here. (_Seriously_, what in God's name was taking so long?)

John laughed again before he started his explanation.

"You're... my-my best... friend." he mumbled but quickly continued on like he was embarrassed to admit that fact (probably because there was already enough gossip about the two, not that being friends would really make any difference). "You're also Sherlock Holmes, the... world's only... Consulting Detective. Scotland Yard needs you... to help solve all their cases." John laughed again at this. Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "No one... needs me."

"Wrong, Doctor Watson," the world's only Consulting Detective looked down at his blogger, intelligent grey eyes meeting soft brown ones. "_I_ need you."

* * *

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	14. Freak

#14 | Freak

"Donovan don't you think that name-calling is just a _tad bit_... I don't know, juvenile?"

* * *

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	15. Insanity

#15 | Insanity

"No one moves a muscle or, I swear to God, I _will_ shoot you." Sherlock warned, gripping the gun firmly and steadily in his right hand.

"Now, Sherlock—" John started slowly in a soft voice, hands held up in surrender.

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped, pointing the gun at John. "You have no say in this. Not anymore."

"Sherlock, I have no idea what you're talking about—" John tried again.

"I said shut up!" the detective shouted, cocking the gun that was still aimed at John.

"Put the weapon down, Mr. Holmes!" one of the officers from Scotland Yard ordered again.

"Again" because they'd arrived a few minutes ago and had made this order when they'd arrived.

Currently, John and Sherlock were standing in Colin Starling's flat. Officers had arrived, immediately surrounding the place. One of them had gotten up the stairs to the doorway—where they then hid behind a wall as a precaution, gun at the ready. The door was placed in favor of Sherlock, though, because if anyone tried to step through all Sherlock had to do was aim and shoot.

Colin Starling himself was standing next to John, looking as panicked as ever, as he should be.

John had gone over to question him for a case that he and Sherlock were on. Somehow, for reasons beyond John, they'd ended up in this situation with the consulting detective holding him and Colin hostage.

Sherlock ignored the officer and continued to point the gun at John.

"Sherlock, what exactly is this about?" John asked. "I don't even—"

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know!" Sherlock snarled.

"But I don't—!" John started.

"_Stop_ lying to me!"

"I'm not lying to you! I don't even know what you're talking about, Sherlock!"

"I can't believe you, you of all people, John." Sherlock responded. "I trusted you." John opened his mouth to respond to that but Sherlock stopped him by saying, "And if you say, 'I don't know what you're talking about' again, I swear it, I'll shoot you."

"Okay, you know what?" John dropped his arms. "If you're going to shoot me at least tell me what I did wrong."

Sherlock smiled without humor. "Oh, no, I'm not letting you weasel your way out of this. You know exactly what you did." He glared down at his blogger, his eyes a cold, steely grey today. John met his gaze evenly and Sherlock could practically see the light bulb go off in his head.

"_That?_ You're talking about _that_?" John asked almost sounding incredulous. "I _thought_ we agreed that he"—he gestured to Colin—"was the one behind all of this!"

"Wait, what?" Colin asked, eyes widening, speaking for the first time since this whole ordeal began. "Me? Behind what? What are you talking about?"

Sherlock and John ignored him, too caught up in their own argument to pay him any mind.

"Sherlock, I didn't do _anything_. I simply came here to talk to him." John enunciated each word carefully, trying to drill it into the detectives brain that he hadn't betrayed him.

"I am so sick and tired of your lies!" Sherlock shouted shaking the gun at John while John backed away, his hands flying back up in surrender as he shouted over Sherlock, "I'm not lying! I'm not lying!"

Three things happened nearly simultaneously then (or rather so close together they might as well have happened simultaneously): Sherlock fired several shots at John, who hit the floor, eyes closed while the officer behind the wall took this distraction to fire his own weapon at Sherlock, who also fell forward, a few feet away from John, his eyes wide open and glazed over, all the while Colin waved his hands frantically, palms out shouting at the officer, "No! Wait! Wait! I did it! I admit it! I did it!"

But it was too little, too late.

The rest of the officers rushed in then and subdued the shocked, wide-eyed Colin Starling. He'd never meant for this to happen. _Never_.

"I'm sorry," he whispered not being able to tear his eyes away from the two bodies on the floor. "I'm so sorry." He repeated over and over again as they cuffed him.

John opened his eyes when the officers were half-way out the door with Mr. Starling in tow.

His eyebrows furrowed as he looked over at Sherlock.

"How... how do you do that?" he asked in a semi-quiet voice despite all that had just happened.

There was a beat before Sherlock blinked and focused in on his friend who hadn't gotten up, just stayed, lying there in the same position on the floor. He didn't make any move to get up just yet either.

"Blanks, what else?" he answered in that tone of his when something was _really_ obvious.

John ignored this. "No, the... the eye thing." John gestured to his eyes.

"Oh, practice." Sherlock stated simply before standing up and holding out a hand for his friend with that famous half-smile of his.

John took Sherlock's hand and stood up before they both turned toward the door, freezing though when they saw Lestrade standing in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked seeing the look on his face.

"A bit dramatic there." Lestrade commented.

Sherlock shrugged. "I found that to be rather fun, actually. John?" He looked over at the doctor then, who smiled up at him.

John nodded and they turned to look back at Lestrade.

"Yeah, most fun I've had in a while. Better than sitting watching telly all day, that's for sure."

"Now, if you'll excuse me. I've got to get back to the flat." Sherlock checked the time. "My kidneys ought to be done soon. I have to take them out at exactly the right time or the whole experiment will be ruined. Good afternoon."

"Kidneys? Kidneys out of wh—oh, never mind. Afternoon." Lestrade stepped aside to the let the detective and his blogger leave, having learned by now it was just best _not_ to ask and just let Sherlock Holmes be Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**Fun fact: This was extremely hard for me to write, just because it feels so out of character for Sherlock to treat John that way. I hated every moment of it... well until I got to the end, at least.**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	16. Newbie

#16 | Newbie

"Donovan head to the scene with Anderson. I'll be there in a few minutes." Lestrade instructed as he stepped out of his office, donning his jacket, as Donovan and a rookie, who'd just been promoted—Abigail her name was—walked up to him.

"You're not... you're not getting the Freak, are you?" she asked following him down the hall with Abigail trailing behind. "Because we _can_ handle this without his help."

"There's been three murders in the course of _one_ week. All our leads have been dead ends. We've got no other choice." Lestrade explained.

"But, sir—" Donovan started but broke off when Lestrade stopped and turned around to face her.

"That's an order, Sergeant Donovan." Lestrade snapped challenging Donovan to go against his orders. She met his gaze evenly in what you couldn't exactly call a glare, but was on its way there.

"Um, excuse me for asking, but, who exactly are we talking about?" Abigail asked timidly breaking the tension between the two.

They both looked over at her and Donovan opened her mouth to answer but Lestrade beat her to it.

"Sherlock Holmes. Have you ever heard of him?" he asked.

Abigail shook her head.

"He's—" Donovan tried again.

"When you meet him," Lestrade interrupted again, "just try to ignore the fact that every time he opens his mouth he's insulting you and you'll be just fine, okay?"

* * *

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	17. Idiom

#17 | Idiom

"_Mr. Holmes!_" Julia Flynn snapped. "I demand you leave _right now_." She pointed to the door sharply, her whole body stiff, her nostrils flaring, her mouth a thin line. "_Everything_ I worked hard for, _everything_ I sacrificed for this is now going up in flames! And it's all because of _you_!"

"Actually, Miss Flynn, the expression is down in flames, up in smoke." Sherlock corrected indifferent to her emotions.

"Sherlock," John said in a warning tone, giving him _the look_ while Julia fumed.

Sherlock turned his head to look down at his friend:

"Not good?"

* * *

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	18. Drug

#18 | Drug

Molly walked swiftly and silently down the hall trying to get away from the lab. Far, far away from the lab. She blinked and hot, salty tears streamed down her face. Breathing hard, sniffling, she reached up to wipe them away with the sleeve of her jacket. At least she hadn't broke in front of Sherlock. It had come close, though, she had felt the tears welling up in her eyes and the sob that wanted to escape her throat when he'd told her to break it off with Jim. That's why she'd run out so abruptly. She hadn't wanted to break in front of Sherlock.

She continued to walk down the hall, head down. Walking like that she was bound to crash into someone and she did.

"Oh, sorry," she apologized not looking up from the floor, trying to push past him.

"Hey, have you been crying, Molly?" he asked grabbing her arm. It was Trevor, she recognized his voice.

"Um, no, no. I haven't. It's fine... it's fine." She wiggled her way out of his grip and dashed into the women's toilet that was conveniently placed right next to where they were standing.

"Molly!" he called after her but she was already inside, the door closing.

She _completely_ broke then. Pressing her back against the wall and sliding down onto the floor sobbing quietly, bringing her legs up to her chest, resting her forehead on her knees and covering her head with her arms as she did so.

She _hated_ that Sherlock had such an affect on her!

She absolutely _hated_ it!

Why did he have to anyway? Why couldn't she be like Sherlock, not caring what other people did or said? So confident in all he did.

No emotions.

No heartbreak.

No helpless love...

That was Molly, helplessly in love with the "high functioning sociopath".

She'd fallen for him the first time they'd met, the first she'd seen him and has been head over heels in love with him ever since.

That's why she'd been so happy when she'd met Jim. She knew that she could love someone else. Maybe not with the passion and power she loved Sherlock, but at least she could somewhat push those feelings down enough to have a relationship with someone else.

And then of course Sherlock had to go and ruin it all. He _always_ did that, with everything she did or wore or had (like the lipstick; was her mouth really that small?). And it just wasn't fair! Why did he have to be such a downer all the time?

Molly let out a heavy sigh. Her tears were still running, but it was less violent now and she'd sobbed herself out. Breathing hard, she sniffled and slowly stood up, now just tired.

Disappointed.

Depressed.

Upset.

Tired.

Hurt.

Hurt more than anything.

She went over to a mirror and splashed her face with cold water a few times before grabbing some paper towels and wiping her face. Her nose was still red and her eyes still puffy, but for the most part she almost, kind of looked like she hadn't been crying.

She couldn't go out there just yet, though. She needed another moment of silence. Another moment to just take a few deep breaths and compose herself.

She would never be able to get over Sherlock.

She would never be able to build up a wall to his insults and his insensitive comments.

She would never be able to fall out of love for him.

She would always looking at him and wish she were with him.

She would always be hurt when he spoke so heartlessly.

She would always be deeply and helplessly and hopelessly in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And it would always hurt to know that she'd never be to him what he was to her.

And it would _always_ hurt to know that Sherlock Holmes would never love her.

* * *

**Hm... I don't know... what do you think?**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	19. Achilles

#19 | Achilles

Mrs. Hudson popped her head into the kitchen, knocking on the door as she did so. Sherlock was currently examining something through the microscope.

"Sherlock—" she started.

"Not now. I'm busy." he interrupted her.

"But, Sherlock—"

Sherlock turned his torso around to look at her.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm in the middle of a very important experiment that needs my constant attention. I can't leave this kitchen. If you'll please." he said politely but in a cold voice. He then turned back around to look through his microscope again. Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to say something but, like Sherlock knew somehow, he spoke before she could, "Nothing you say can change my mind."

"Sherlock," she said quietly, "it's John."

* * *

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	20. Flirt

#20 | Flirt

Reply  
_Is that a threat?_

From: The Woman  
_No.  
__It's a promise._

* * *

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	21. Day

#21 | Day

John exited the cab, swiftly paying the fare and stalking up to the door labeled 221B. He slammed the door as he stepped in and stormed up the stairs, slamming the door to the flat as well.

Sherlock appeared from the kitchen, holding a test tube in one hand and a flask in the other.

"Oh, you're back." he commented before retreating back into the kitchen to finish his experiment. Not a moment later did he realize something, and, quickly setting down his test tube and flask and taking off his safety goggles, he exited the kitchen, John still standing in front of the door to the flat, hands clenching and unclenching as his sides.

"For God sakes, what the hell happened to you?" Sherlock asked examining John's face, which had taken a beating: A busted lip, cut cheek and a black eye already starting to form.

John glared up as his flatmate.

"Life." he deadpanned before going and sitting down in his chair by the fireplace with an angry, frustrated, annoyed huff.

Sherlock stared at the back of his friend's head for a moment before saying, "I'll... go get the first-aid kit."

* * *

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	22. Gratitude

#22 | Gratitude

"Thank you, John." Mycroft spoke quietly.

John had started shaking his head when Mycroft first spoke and soon as Mycroft had finished—almost before he'd finished speaking, in fact—he spoke: "No; I'm not doing it for you." he said. "I'm doing it for Sherlock."

* * *

**Fun fact: I don't particularly like Mycroft.**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	23. Think

#23 | Think

"And this time, Anderson, do us all a favor and actually _think_ before you speak."

* * *

**Fun fact: I don't like Anderson... **_**at all**_**.**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	24. Shot

**{Paired with #25 and #26.}**

* * *

#24 | Shot

"John, I really don't think this is a good idea." Sherlock said, stepping in front of his blogger, blocking his path. "This is dangerous."

John looked up at the detective incredulously. "You?" he asked. "You're telling me that it's too dangerous? The man that lives for risking his life so he won't be bored?" John snorted and tried to push past Sherlock, but Sherlock grabbed his upper forearm and dragged him back.

"You're too caught up in this. You're too emotional. You're going to get hurt or killed and I don't want—" He broke off then—letting go of John's arm—unable to say it.

"What? You don't want _what_, Sherlock?" John asked, a hint of a challenge in his eyes.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, not meeting John's piercing gaze.

"I don't—" He tried again only to fail. "I don't want—" Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh that sounded close to hiss at yet another failure. John was really going to make him say this, wasn't he? "I..."—Sherlock struggled to force the words out of his unwilling mouth; he was never really good at sentiment—"care... about... you, John. Your... my friend and... I don't... want you... to get... hurt." He finally met his friend's eyes as he finished.

John was smiling at Sherlock's statement, but there was still that tension there, behind his eyes.

"I'm glad that you care so much, I really do, but you can't stop me." John took a step to his right but Sherlock blocked him yet again.

"John—"

"If you're going to come with me, because we both know you can't stop me from doing this and we both know you're going to come with me whether I like it or not, then promise me something, will you?"

Sherlock gave his friend a reproachful look.

John continued when his flatmate didn't say anything, "If you have the shot, even if I'm in the way, take it."

Sherlock shook his head. "That goes against everything I just told you. I can't—"

"Then do me a favor," John interrupted, "and stay out of my way."

* * *

**Fun fact: I tried to keep this in character as much as possible (I don't know how well I did, though). But, I mean, to be fair John is pretty riled up and angry. About what, well... let's just say he has a score to settle.**

**Thank you for everything,**

**TheBrightestNight**


	25. Peril

**Thanks, Sherlockian Dreams for giving me the little shove to extend my original idea.**

******{Paired with #24 and #26.}**

* * *

#25 | Peril

"Don't move!" the officer, Ian Mitchell, ordered.

"Now, hold on just a minute—" a voice floated from the gloom, the gloom that the officer currently could barely see into. All he saw were two dark figures.

Mitchell saw at least one of the shadowy figures move followed by the sound of slow, labored-sounding footsteps coming toward him and gripped his gun tighter in his hand.

"Don't move!" he shouted again. The silhouette took another step forward anyway but the officer cocked his gun then and said, "I _will_ shoot if you take another step."

"If you're going to shoot me, then shoot me, but I have someone who needs serious medical attention, _immediately_." the figure responded not sounding perturbed at all that he might be shot at any moment. Besides, it wasn't like he hadn't been shot before.

Mitchell peered into the shadows with narrowed eyes, trying to get a better look at the two figures. Now that he thought about it... that voice sounded _so_ familiar... like he'd heard that voice floating around Scotland Yard before.

Slowly, cautiously Mitchell lowed his gun and took a few steps forward.

"...John?" he asked. "John Watson?"

There was a very audible sigh of relief from John before he stumbled forward into the light with Sherlock in tow, one of his arms around John's shoulders, John's arm around Sherlock's waist, trying to keep the detective upright. With their height difference and all, it was difficult to keep Sherlock standing.

And if Mitchell hadn't known any better he'd have thought Sherlock was dead.

* * *

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	26. Repetition

**{Paired with #24 and #25.}**

* * *

#26 | Repetition

It was the infernal beeping that Sherlock first heard when he came to. And after about a second or two, it became absolutely annoying, almost unbearable. How could he possibly _think_ over the sound of that high pitched, short squeal? It was driving him mad!

Sherlock struggled to open his eyes so he could see where he was. All that he could hear was that beeping, drowning out any other sounds that he could've used to help determine where he was.

For a moment it was rather difficult but finally, his eyelids fluttered open and the first thing he saw was white. Bright, sterilized white. He sniffed the air briefly and his nose was assaulted by bleach and other various cleaning supplies. He fought the urge to sneeze as he lifted his head slightly, glancing around the room. When he saw the IV drip and the heart-rate monitor as well as the wires leading away from the machines and toward him he confirmed he was, in fact, in a hospital.

_Ugh, how boring,_ he thought, letting his head fall back on the pillow. A moment past and, with a small sigh, he started to sit up, pain shooting through his body as he did so. Nonetheless he ignored this irritating fact and continued until he was sitting fully upright. He then started to reach for the wires ready to pull them off of him but another hand grabbed his before he could.

He turned his head to the left opening his mouth to speak but stopped when he noticed who it was. The words died in his throat and he closed his mouth before dropping his hand and falling back onto the pillows with an exasperated sigh.

_Stupid fragile human body,_ Sherlock thought in annoyance as more pain shot through him.

"So," John started pulling a chair up and sitting down. "How are you feeling?"

Sherlock threw his friend an irritated glance before looking back over at the heart rate monitor. Did they always have to be so infuriating?

"I'm fine." he answered John's question after a moment. "When can I get out of here?" Sherlock looked back at John, who looked tired with dark circles under his eyes, and, it may have just been the fluorescents, but he also looked rather pallid. Long night. No sleep. Been here for a while.

John smiled without much amusement at Sherlock's question. "You were shot three times, Sherlock. You got out of the OR…" John looked down at his watch. "…about an hour ago. You know, most people—"

"Yes, well, I think we've already established that I'm not _most people_." Sherlock interrupted him. He looked back up at the ceiling. "This is what I get for other people's _emotional_ problems." he muttered.

"You're welcome." said John dryly.

The detective looked over at his flatmate again. "This is your fault, you know." he stated.

"You didn't have to come. And you didn't have to push me out of the way either." John responded quickly his tone of voice slightly hurt—Sherlock not missing this, obviously—trying to ignore the fact that Sherlock had just blamed him for getting him injured so badly. It wasn't like he didn't feel bad enough already.

"Well I didn't want you—" Sherlock broke off and looked up at the ceiling, around the room, anywhere but at John.

"What?" John asked a smile pulling at his lips. Sherlock's eyes continued to dart around the room. "What was that? You didn't want…?" he trailed off waiting for Sherlock to finish his sentence.

Sherlock glared at John.

"You're really going to make me say it again, aren't you?" he asked his eyes narrowing slightly.

John simply smiled and waited.

"I didn't want you to get hurt, John." Sherlock told him quietly, looking back up at the ceiling.

John sat back in his chair, content with that.

For now.

"Seriously, John, how long until I can leave?" Sherlock looked back at the doctor.

"You were shot three times—"

"Yes, we've been over this before. Moving on."

"You were shot three times," John said again anyway, "half-dead before you got to the hospital. Major surgery to get the bullets out. You're in not state to be leaving here"—Sherlock groaned—"anytime soon. Probably want to keep you for several days—"

"Ugh. Boring. Dull. Tedious." the detective muttered. "I'm fine. I'll _be_ fine." He looked at John then. "After all, I'll have you, Doctor John Watson."

* * *

**Hope I got the characters right.**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	27. Magic

#27 | Magic

"Just put the gun down." John said slowly, hands raised in surrender.

Of course it had to be him who was being held hostage by a person he was questioning during a case. Julian Mose was the bloke's and he may have seemed all genuine and sincere and truly devastated by the lose of his wife when the case began, but now that John was looking down the barrel of a gun _he_ was holding, he didn't seem so nice or genuine anymore.

He just seemed... mental. John could see the malice in Julian's dark eyes. He meant business.

It had come out of nowhere too. John had come over to his flat, they'd sat down and right in the middle he just explodes and pulls out a gun.

Julian smiled without amusement, cocking the gun.

"You didn't say the magic word." he sang.

There was the sound of a second gun cocking as Sherlock raised his own gun to Julian's head: "Please."

* * *

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	28. Body

#28 | Body

Detective Inspector Lestrade, who was gripping a bouquet in one hand, slowly walked up to Sherlock who was currently standing over a grave. The night was cold, but Sherlock didn't have his usual Belstaff or scarf on at the moment.

"What _are_ you doing?" he asked before he noticed John standing inside of the grave Sherlock was standing over with a shovel in his hands.

Sherlock looked over at Lestrade and answered, "Digging up a body, what does it look like?"

"More like making John dig up a body." John muttered under his breath, resting for a moment.

Sherlock's head snapped back down towards John.

"What?" he asked.

John purposefully ignored him and got back to shoveling dirt.

"I could have you arrested for this, you know; call Scotland Yard right now." Lestrade told Sherlock, forgetting all about why he had originally come.

Sherlock smiled but didn't look up.

"But you won't." he stated.

Lestrade crossed his arms, "And what makes you say that?"

The consulting detective looked up at him this time but before he could say anything John spoke: "You know, you could come and help me anytime, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him and instead answered Lestrade's question: "If you were to have us arrested you'd have already dialed them or arrested us yourself." Sherlock explained.

Lestrade studied him for a long moment before asking, "Don't you usually get your bodies from Bart's morgue?"

Sherlock smiled and chuckled.

"That's not why I'm here."

"Seriously, anytime." John muttered.

"Okay, then why—" Lestrade started.

"A case, Detective Inspector. I'm on a case." Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade looked at him disbelievingly. "And what exactly would that case be?" he asked.

"Haven't you read the newspaper? Watched telly recently? Two nights ago a body was snatched from this cemetery. The coffin was left open and the hole was unfilled." Sherlock explained, excitement lighting up his blue-green eyes.

"And how do you know that this is going to be the next grave?" Lestrade questioned, thinking he had him cornered. Then again, when did anyone ever have The Great Sherlock Holmes cornered.

Sherlock opened his mouth about to answer but the shovel then hit something hard and wooden. John stopped digging and looked up at Sherlock, who jumped into the grave and helped clear away the remaining layer of dirt.

"So, wait, are we hoping for a body or for no body?" John asked.

"Well," Sherlock started, reaching down to open it. "If there's a body that means we're looking for a cannibalist. If there's no body we're looking for a necrophiliac. Which sounds worse?"

* * *

**I'm not exactly sure if that's true, but I got this idea from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (I admit it) and, originally, they had flesh-eating demon or... something else that I don't quite remember. Anyway, the point is that because Sherlock isn't exactly demons and monsters and vampires I replaced it with what I thought would be reasonable which is a cannibalist or a necrophiliac.**

**Also, sorry if it seems a bit... choppy. I was originally planning on making it more vague but then decided last minute to flesh—get it?—it out a bit more.**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	29. Doctor

**{Important Post Scriptum at the end... obviously.}**

* * *

#29 | Doctor

A gunshot sliced through the silence of the night, ripping through the air.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, sprinting toward where the sound had come from. He got to a tiny clearing in the large field made by many trampling feet upon the tall, thick grass. Sherlock was lying on the ground, his forehead bleeding. Movement caught the corner of John's eye and reflexively he looked up to see a dark figure heading away from the small clearing. John quickly raised his gun and fired a couple of shots at the figure. There was a cry of pain followed by grunts and growls, but the rustling of the grass continued and soon faded.

With no threat detected at the moment, John knelt down next to Sherlock. He was still breathing, thank God. The wound on his head, however... wasn't exactly deep but it wasn't exactly a scratch either, and it was bleeding pretty badly.

"Damn it." John muttered under his breath before saying louder, "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

"John," Sherlock mumbled, his eyelids fluttering for a few seconds before he got them open. "He's… he's… getting away—" Sherlock struggled to get to his feet, but John put a hand firmly on his shoulder, preventing him from getting any farther than sitting. "We… can't let him… get away." Sherlock objected blinking hard and reaching up to touch his wound.

"You're hurt and he's probably long gone by now. In a field like this, when it's this dark out, I doubt we'll be able to find him." John reasoned the doctor side of him kicking in.

Sherlock tried to stand again anyway, but John kept his hand firmly on the detective's shoulder, keeping him sitting.

"That wound is deep enough that it's going to need stitches—" John started.

"I'm fine." Sherlock snapped, swatting John's hand off his shoulder. He attempted to stand again but before John could push him back down into a sitting position, he was already on his feet. This however didn't last very long, for as soon as Sherlock had got to his feet he swayed and his knees buckled. John caught him and set him gently back onto the ground.

"Damn." Sherlock muttered looking annoyed.

"Now are you going to listen to me?" John asked.

Sherlock glared at him which was his way of saying yes and muttered, "Don't suppose you have a medical kit handy? Or maybe a sewing kit?"

"Sorry?" John looked at him confused.

"We're out in the middle of nowhere. It's going to take ages for an ambulance to get here even if we _did_ have service and I'm guessing that you're going to need to close this wound if we're going to be traveling anywhere." Sherlock explained.

"Oh, right. Yes. Well… unfortunately I don't have a medical or sewing kit—"

Sherlock let out a huff and looked away.

"Well, I'm sorry, I'll remember to bring a needle and thread the next time we go chase a criminal just in case one of us happens to have a bullet fly past us, leaving an open wound." John retorted sarcastically.

Sherlock reached for his scarf then, "I'll just put pressure on it until—"

John shook his head. "No, I want to close that up."

"I'll be fine, John." Sherlock insisted.

"I'm not going to take any chances."

"Then what do you suppose we do?"

John smiled. "I think you forgot, Sherlock. I'm an army doctor and a bloody good one at that."

"I never forget." Sherlock told John as he stood and took out his gun. "What are you doing?"

"Improvising." John answered taking out the magazine from his gun and pushing a bullet out while Sherlock bit back the reflex to make a snide comment. Because, as much as Sherlock wouldn't admit it, out loud to his flatmate, his friend, he trusted John with his life.

John knelt down next to Sherlock again while taking the bullet out of the shell casing, then.

"Tilt your head back." he instructed.

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm cauterizing the wound. Tilt your head back." the army doctor ordered again.

Sherlock reluctantly did as he was told and John poured the gunpowder into the wound, getting a wince from Sherlock.

"This next bit's going to be worse." John warned pulling out a matchbook and taking out a match.

"You don't smoke." Sherlock commented looking at the matches in John's hand with slightly furrowed eyebrows.

"Nope, I don't." said John as he took a match out.

"Since when do you carry matches around with you, then?"

"Since I met you."

And before Sherlock could say anything else John struck the match.

* * *

**Fun Fact: Got this idea from Lost. Yes, indeed, if that cauterizing the wound with gunpowder and a match sounded familiar, that's where I got it from.**

**For my Guest reviewer, I'm not sure if I'm going to expand on Achilles, but that doesn't mean no, either. So, be on the lookout because I might just post a one-shot/short story for that.**

**{PS: So, final stretch guys! Any ideas/suggestions of what I should do next month? And before you say Sherlock I'm going to tell you now, I'm not going to do Sherlock. I said I'd switch off each month; HOWEVER, I **_**will**_** come back to Sherlock. I have way too many ideas to just leave it at this. And with the third series coming out soon, I'll probably have even more for you. So, I **_**will**_** be coming back to it… just not next month, as tempting as that is.}**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	30. Texts

**{Paired with #31. Mentions of #07 and #13.}**

* * *

#30 | Texts

Messages – Received  
Messages – Sent  
_If you're really dead, I'll never forgive myself.  
__But I swear to God, Sherlock, I swear to God, if you're really alive... I'll never forgive you._

_ You were my best friend and I'll always believe in you._

_ You were wrong.  
__My limp isn't psychosomatic.  
__It's come back._

_ You know... it's funny because I never thought I'd miss you waking me up at ungodly hours to make a Tesco's run for milk...  
__Or because of gunshots.  
__Or an explosion from one of your experiments._

_ The marks on the tables used to annoy me to no end...  
__Now they're just painful reminders._

_ Why did you do this to me?  
__It's not fair, Sherlock.  
__To me. Or to Mrs. Hudson.  
__She seems to be handling it better than I am...  
__You left us.  
__You left me.  
__All alone._

_ Do you know how hard it is to walk through the streets of London and feel like every eye is on you?  
__I can feel their eyes on my back.  
__Burning a hole right through me._

_ You told me once that you'd be lost without me, lost without your blogger.  
__I'm pretty sure you were joking then...  
__But then there was that one time, when I'd taken a bullet for you, you told me that... well, that you needed me.  
__Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, I needed you, too, Sherlock?_

SENDING...

SENT

John set his phone down on the chair's armrest, letting out a heavy sigh. For a while he sat there, alone, in the silence, the empty flat that he just couldn't get himself to move out of against his psychiatrist and his sister's wishes and advice. He watched as the light slowly faded into night. And when darkness had fallen he continued to sit, in the darkness, staring out the window blankly.

Today had been the day.

Today had been the day that Sherlock had taken the fall.

Today had been the day when, three years ago, John stood—helplessly—by and watched his best friend fall to his death.

John hadn't left the flat at all today. Like he usually did on this day. It was probably unhealthy to act in such a way, but he was lucky if he managed to get out of bed.

He sat there in the darkness for a few more hours before deciding it was probably time to go to bed. Grabbing his cane he struggled to stand and, leaving his phone on the armrest, started to head to his bedroom upstairs. He'd only taken maybe three or four steps when his phone beeped and the screen lit up telling him he'd just gotten a text.

A text from who at 3 in the morning?

John had no idea.

(Well he had one idea, one fleeting idea, but he was... he was... _dead_.)

He stood there in the middle of the room, frozen to the spot for a moment, an irrational surge of... fear, maybe, washing over him. This—whatever it was—seemed to freeze him to the spot. It was the feeling like when you were a kid and had a bad dream, you hid under your covers not daring to move, barely daring to breath, afraid the monster would see and attack you: Completely paralyzed.

The screen on his phone went dark but not a moment after did it beep again, the screen lighting up.

John turned then, snapping out of his daze, to stare at his phone. At the angle he was looking at the phone, he couldn't tell who was texting him. Still he stood and watched and waited.

The screen went dark.

The phone beeped for a third time, lighting up the screen for the third time.

Finally John made his way back to the chair, sat down heavily and picked up the his phone. His hands were shaking as he slowly opened the messages he'd been sent.

Messages – Received  
From: Sherlock Holmes

_ I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry you have to go through that._

_ Alone...  
__You know you were right: Friends do protect people._

_ I could tell you a story about one particular mark. If you'll let me. You'd probably find it amusing._

John's heart stopped and he nearly dropped the phone when he saw who it was from.

This wasn't happening.

This _wasn't_ happening.

He was _dead_. Buried in the cemetery, six feet under.

No.

Someone else was sending him these texts as some sort of _sick_...joke.

He was about to throw the phone across the room when it beeped again. John jumped but composed himself, gripping the phone tightly in his hand, ready to throw it across the room anyway. Yet another beep stopped him though and then another and another and another and another before stopping completely.

His phone was silent.

The screen was black.

With his heart fluttering in his chest, his hands shaking even more violently now then before, John opened up his messages. He just couldn't help himself. He _needed_ to know.

Messages – Received  
From: Sherlock Holmes

_I can buy the milk from now on... if you want me to. I can't guarantee about the gunshots or the experiments, though._

_ I'm never wrong, Doctor John Watson._

_ You wrote the same thing on your blog. Haven't updated in a long while now..._

_ I am sorry, John. I am.  
__If you'll let me explain, you'll understand why.  
__Forgive me._

_ What I said was true on both accounts.  
__I do need you._

That was it. That was all he sent. He hadn't even responded to his last question. _Did_ he ever think that John needed him just as much as he needed John? Did he?

John's phone beeped:

_I was only thinking of you when I jumped._

John let out a shaky breath. This wasn't happening. He was probably just dreaming to ease the pain. This wasn't real. This couldn't be happening!

A small part of him nagged at his brain, though, telling him it could be. He could still be awake. Maybe it was possible that he _was_ alive after all...

But you watched him fall! You watched him fall off that building. You checked his pulse. You saw the blood, his bleeding face—

John lifted his phone up, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

_Sherlock?_

SENDING...

SENT

_Is that you?_

SENDING...

SENT

_If this is some kind of sick joke..._

SENDING...

SENT

_Please. Answer me. You answered my other texts._

SENDING...

SENT

_Please, Sherlock, please... Don't do this to me again. Don't leave me._

SENDING...

SENT

When there was no response to his texts, John threw the phone down on the floor and stood up, making his way to his room again but froze, yet again when he heart a noise. Except this wasn't his phone. It was outside. It was the sound of a car.

A car? At 3 in the morning?

Against his better judgment, John made his way over to the window. A taxi was just driving away when John got there. He looked up and down the street but didn't see anyone. No one at all. No movement. No sign of life.

Still, on a whim, spur of the moment, impulse, John slipped a pair of shoes on and exited the flat not bothering to grab a coat and stepped outside, looking around, up and down the street. Nothing. Not that John really expected there to be. It was, after all, in impulsive decision to step outside.

Getting texts from a dead man could do that to you.

What made this whole ordeal worse was the fact that hope had started to form inside of him. He'd desperately tried to not let it, but it had anyway.

Now it just hurt.

Hurt just as much as it had when John had first seen Sherlock fall.

Mind-numbing...

Paralyzing...

Burning...

_Pain_.

Because false hope was worse than anything in the world.

False hope was dangerous.

Gripping his cane so tight his knuckles turned white, John slowly limped his way back inside.

"Don't do this to me, Sherlock." he whispered under his breath. "Don't leave me. You can't leave me." His voice started to fade out: "You can't leave me... you can't..."

* * *

**Fun fact: As I typed this I regretted not posting it the day The Reichenbach Fall first aired. That would've made a much better impact. But I do like my decision for posting this at the end of my Sherlock fandom month. (It still makes an impact in my mind.)**

**I hope those responses sound kind of how Sherlock would respond. It's hard to think like Sherlock, especially when it comes to John. Oh, and I hope I got John's character down too.**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


	31. Belstaff

**So... last one. I won't be doing Sherlock next month, but I promise you I will be coming back to Sherlock. There aren't a lot of fandoms out there that I like **_**and**_** can write about (exception: Twilight, because I'm not particularly a fan of Twilight, but as you've probably seen from my profile, I have two fics about it), so... in a couple of months, you'll probably see another Sherlock fic. Stay tuned!**

**{Paired with #30}**

* * *

#31 | Belstaff

John closed the door slowly and made his way up the stairs to the flat to grab his phone quickly. As much as he'd hated it a moment ago, it was a necessity for him. He couldn't afford to by a new one. Not right now, anyway.

He entered, closing the door behind him even though he was going to go upstairs in a moment; it was mainly out of habit.

He was just picking up his phone from the floor when he realized several different things:

First, that he'd had to open the door when he entered, when he could've sworn he hadn't closed it when he left.

Second, the lights were now on and he was definitely sure they'd been off when he left. They'd been off practically all day if John recalled correctly.

Third, there was something dark and hanging from the hook on the back of the door. On further inspection John realized it was a coat.

A dark coat.

A dark, long coat.

A dark, long, Belstaff coat.

A dark, long, Belstaff coat with a dark blue scarf hanging out of one of the pockets.

Slowly, hesitantly, like it was an animal that could attack at any moment if startled or threatened, John went over to the door, to the coat, absentmindedly slipping his phone into his pocket.

He squinted at the coat and stared at the coat. Sometimes his hand would come up as if to touch the coat or take it off the hook, but he always stopped himself before he could.

More of that hope started to unwillingly form within John, but he let it come this time. It took away the pain, the aches, the burning inside of him. And though it'd only come back tenfold when he realized that the detective wasn't coming back, that this was a hallucination or a very vivid dream, he didn't mind. He just let that hope form and swell.

John blinked and a tear escaped the corner of one of his eyes. He quickly reached up to wipe it away with a shaking hand, composing himself, not letting any more tears escape.

His hand then went toward the coat, the Belstaff his favorite detective wore, paused momentarily before gently touching the fabric with his fingertips.

It felt real all right.

Maybe... he'd fallen asleep in the chair by the fireplace and just didn't realize it. Dreams could feel real right? Then again, it seemed that whenever he was having a dream and realized he was having a dream he'd wake up instantly. He wasn't waking up in the chair in the dark, he was definitely awake and the lights were definitely on.

And there was definitely a coat hanging on the back of the door to the flat.

Just to make sure John pinched himself hard in the arm. A second passed, then a minute and still nothing.

That's when he heard it. Coming from his right. A terrifyingly familiar baritone voice asking, "John?"

* * *

**All right, well, that's the end of that. That was rather fun. Thanks to all who followed, favorited or commented; acknowledgments on my website. I was actually horribly scared that no one would read or like this. I hope you enjoyed.**

**Next month... I want to leave it a surprise until the very last minute (but mostly because I haven't decided which fandom I'm going to do next). Which also means to just look for the story titled February tomorrow.**

**Lastly, my apologies if the next fandom is a fandom that you don't like or don't want to read. If you're a fan of my stuff don't feel obligated to read them. Just the ones that interest you or are a part of a fandom that you do like. I don't mind. I'm just doing all this for fun. On a whim, on an impulse that struck me January 2****nd****, 2013.**

**Thank you for everything,  
****TheBrightestNight**


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